


what the water gave me

by youatemytailor



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Banter, M/M, banter banter banter ridiculous banter as far as the eye can see, flint hiding feels behind more banter. silver likely doing the same who knows, silver is kind of filthy and he needs a bath. also flint has caught feelings and suffers, silverflint, this is essentially soft porn bc i'm tired of thinking about 410 and being sad, tries to distract from it by being mean. all that jazz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 13:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10922316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youatemytailor/pseuds/youatemytailor
Summary: "Captain," Silver says, firmly, like this is the most important discussion they have ever had, "Come herenowand let me smell your goddamned hair."





	what the water gave me

**Author's Note:**

> Yet again, there is no explanation for this. Mid season 2? I guess? Inspired by the Friends ep where Chandler takes a bath. Shh.

Consciousness sneaks up onto Flint like the dawn breaking. Shapeless thoughts gently rear their heads as if to test his willingness to cooperate—breaking the surface of his awareness one by one—only to be dragged under again, nary a ripple left behind. Ever stubborn, his entire being resists wakefulness much in the same way it does everything else. The world stays at arms length, wonderfully fuzzy and surprisingly easy to ignore. 

For a series of blissful moments, Flint knows nothing. Only that he’s face down, in his bed, in his cabin, the dip of a now familiar weight at his side. A gentle screeching reaches his ears next; the cot pressed warm under his stomach slowly rocking back and forth with the tide. The bed was never meant for two; Flint's left arm hangs off the edge, fingers ghosting over the ground. 

The stale heat of the cabin presses close, but it is far from uncomfortable. Flint's bones feel loose. The sun hits the spot right between his bare shoulder blades, seeping into his skin in a steady stream. He feels feline, senselessly wishes only to stretch and stretch and stretch, indefinitely and forever, though cannot quite bring himself to begin, knowing it will serve to shake off what little drowsiness remains. The urge to prolong the stillness in his head for as long as he is able to keeps him unmoving in the heat. 

This—the moment before properly waking—is as close to peace as he ever gets. 

A breeze flows in through the cracked window, bringing with it the familiar scent of salt. It runs up the length of Flint's spine, before ruffling the damp hairs at the base of his neck. He suppresses a shiver and reaches for the lightly snoring pile of warmth spread out next to him, intending to wrap himself around it to fight off the chill. Air blows once more through the window and Flint does just that; tangles himself around the source of the heat, presses his bare chest to a bare back, throws his leg over a leg, shuffles in close until his nose is nuzzled into a head of hair. Flush with warmth once more, Flint breathes in deep and waits to be dragged under again.  

A moment later, he recoils so hard he rolls off the cot, crashing inelegantly to the ground. Both hands shoot out on reflex to brace and he barely catches himself before his nose collides with the floor. 

The wind knocked out of him, he huffs out a low, “Jesus fucking _Christ_.” 

Nothing, at first. Not a shred of movement. Then, a long groan. From above, Silver murmurs, blithely, “Morning, Captain. Sleep well?" 

Still trying to get his bearings, Flint stares hard at the ground and does not respond. Silver seems to realise he’s alone in the swinging cot. “What is it?” he demands, voice sharpening, though muffled into the wall he's still facing. “What’s happened? Are we on fire?” 

With a sigh, Flint pushes himself back onto his heels. “No, we're not. Although—" 

"What?" 

"It's—your hair is—”

“ _What_?" The cot begins to swing in a wider arc as Silver wiggles wildly to turn over. "What about it? Christ, is my _hair_ on fire? What the—where  _are_ you—"

At last he sits up, arm braced into the pillows for balance. "Hello, there," he says. "Why the fuck are you on floor?”  

Disheveled and only half-conscious, Silver's entire being is a portrait of reluctant concentration. Mussed overnight, his hair is sticking up in an assortment of mad angles, a veritable nest of crows on top of his head. Only one eye is fully open, while the other fights against the morning light to do the same. The side of his face is flushed red; slightly puffy with sleep and bearing an imprint of the rough canvas of the pillow.  

There's an unexpected surge of fondness in Flint's throat at the sight. It is almost immediately accompanied by an overwhelming sensation of panic. Flint swallows both down, though they put up a hell of a fight.

The silence stretches out. Still peering down at Flint expectantly, Silver stifles a yawn into his wrist and tries to speak at the same time. The resulting word is near unintelligible, though it sounds something like, "Cap-ahhh-tai-ahhn?"

"Nothing's on fire," Flint says, finally. 

Silver's shoulders sag with relief as if he was actually convinced that was a real possibility. "So why on earth are you on the floor?" 

"Because your hair  _reeks_.”  

Silver's other eye snaps open. “I beg your pardon?” 

“Your hair," Flint says, dusting off his hands on his knees, "It stinks. Like a wet dog.”  

“That,” Silver says, brandishing a single finger, “is officially the nicest thing you have ever said to me.” 

Flint shrugs, suppressing a traitorous smile. "It's the truth. I believe the conventional wisdom is that it is supposed to hurt when heard." 

There was truth, and then there was _the_  truth, which was that Flint rolling off the cot was half about Silver's hair (which, honestly, wasn't so bad but could do with a wash) and half about the easy intimacy that they had cultivated between them. At some uncertain point in time the fucking had turned into sleepingwhich had turned into _waking up together_ and the whole affair had happened so naturally and quietly that reaching for Silver first thing in the morning was not even remotely alarming. Which in itself was _very_ alarming. The first was a fact Flint was more than willing to share, and the second, well.

The second not so much. 

Mercifully, Silver is still too new to consciousness to respond and only manages to stare dumbly as Flint rises from the ground, pops his joints and begins to stretch. The bed in Flint's cabin is a far sight better than the hammocks below deck, to be sure, but there's barely enough room for _one,_ let alone two grown men. And with their new...arrangement being what it was, Flint awoke more often than not with Silver pressed warm against his side and a dull ache in his back. Flint spent most mornings wishing he could find it in himself to be more annoyed about it. 

"Well, Captain," Silver says hotly, "You certainly know how to put a man in the mood. Tell me, does insulting your bedfellows first thing in the morning usually work for you?" 

Half-way through stretching, Flint freezes with his fingers threaded together at the base of his neck. He turns to see that Silver is watching him like caught prey. His gaze jumps along length of Flint's back, interest and sleep battling for priority in his eyes. 

“It does," Flint says, looking at the evidence. "Would you like to know what else works?"

At that, Silver looks up. Interest seems to win out.

"A bath. You should consider taking one sometime." 

Shrugging off the weight of Silver's now affronted stare, Flint makes his way to the middle of the cabin. His shirt rests on the ground a few feet away; Silver had all but thrown it there the night before. He sniffs it appraisingly before pulling it over his head. 

The conversation seems to be over, and Flint is thankful. There is much to do. They are currently in a momentary pause of sorts, docked at Freetown for refitting and supplies. The ship is almost entirely empty save for a few stragglers in the form of a skeleton crew, while the rest of the men are busy enjoying their few precious hours of downtime ashore. This pause, however, is not meant to last. Flint has a to-do list that runs alarmingly long, and it would be best to get a head-start on it if they wish to make good time back to Nassau. 

In an effort to keep schedule, Flint is on the hunt for his boots—and he is hit with a vague, rum soaked recollection of peeling them off as Silver was backing him into his desk last night—when Silver pipes up from the far side of the room, clearly determined not to let it lie. 

"I thank you for your concern, Captain," he says, loftily. "Truly, it's touching that you care, but I will have you know that my hair smells just fine." 

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Flint snorts, lowering into a crouch to look under his desk. "The suggestion was for my own well being more so than yours. I damn near broke my nose trying to escape the smell. I may not be as lucky next time.” 

Silver makes a sharp sound in the back of his throat. "I'm sorry, what's my hair supposed to smell like, pray tell? A bloody rose garden?" 

"Just soap, perhaps," Flint offers. 

"Soap!" Silver repeats, like Flint has suggested he rub horseshit into his hair. "It might have escaped your notice, Captain, but we're _pirates_. You for certain and me—well. Something of the sort, at any rate. I think you would be hard pressed to find a man around here who actually smells like soap, of all fucking things."

A win, at last; Flint locates one of his boots right under his chair, the leather of the cuff curled sadly over to the side. Reaching for it, he says, "I am fully aware of what we are, thank you, though it is still no excuse to forgo personal hygiene." 

Silver guffaws, then. "You're lecturing me about personal fucking—God, if this isn't the pot calling the kettle black; half the time you walk around covered head to toe in _blood,_ and more often than not it isn’t even _your_ blood. Crusted everywhere, red beard and all—how on earth is _any_ of that hygienic?" 

"The blood is—" Flint begins, drawing back onto his knees with the boot in his hand. His head knocks into the table and he hisses, " _Fuck—_ the blood is—it's a—it's to cultivate an air of—blood has fuck all to do with cleanliness!" 

"Mhm," Silver hums skeptically, "Shall we consult Dr.Howell on that score? I am sure he would disagree with you." 

Flint groans. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Silver, all I said was that you could do with a bath. That's it. That's the end of it. Now, would you _please—_ "

"Perhaps  _you_ need a bath," Silver interrupts, "Have you even considered that  _you_  could be the real culprit here?" 

Thrown, Flint turns sharply to look at him. "Excuse me?" 

At the far end of the room, Silver is perched cross-legged on the cot, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. He's leaning forward, highly engaged. Highly  _alert_ , Flint realises, with a jolt; a cat with a loose string. When he catches Flint's eye he quickly shrugs and leans back onto his forearms, the very picture of nonchalance. 

"You could have just caught your own scent on me," he says, squinting out of the cabin window, "Given how much time you and I spend together, it is not altogether unthinkable. I mean, we eat together, fight together, sleep together, hell we're practically—" 

“That's impossible," Flint says quickly, shifting on his knees to turn back to the table. "You were the source, not I.” 

Completely undeterred, Silver presses on; “And how would you know? Your hair isn't even long enough for you to—you know what? Fuck it, come here." 

"What?" Half his back to Silver, Flint freezes, staring at the floor. " _Why_?" 

"Come _here_ ," Silver repeats. He pats the cot sharply, making the chains shriek. "I want to see for myself. Smell for myself, rather, just how the hair of a proper pirate is supposed to smell."  

When Flint looks up Silver's expression is so ridiculously stern that the glare Flint had prepared threatens to slip. "Truth be told I'm reluctant to get that close to you again. The stench, you see. My eyes have only just stopped watering." 

Silver's eyes go wide, and then narrow into slits. " _Captain_ ," he says, firmly, like this is the most important discussion they have ever had, "Come here _now_ and let me smell your goddamned hair."  

There were close to zero living souls in the world who could speak to Flint in that particular tone and live to see the next sunrise. Flint supposes that a number of things could be at fault currently for Silver's continued existence over his grisly death. Perhaps it was the comically sincere look in Silver's eye—as if this were an actual argument worth having, worth  _winning—_ or the silly warmth rolling around in the barrel of Flint's chest, heating all the more the longer he looked at Silver's stupid expression.

Perhaps above all else, it was Flint's shock that kept Silver alive. Shock that he was not angry, or annoyed, or aggravated, or exasperated; that he wasn't something,  _anything,_ other than kind of fond and mildly charmed.  

It was startling. Flint could not for the life of him pinpoint when the metamorphosis had occurred. The fact that Flint no longer wanted to wring Silver's neck every time he spoke was exceedingly troubling; the fact that Flint found himself actively wishing Silver would open his stupid mouth and say something smart was, well—horrifying, to say the least.

They stare at one another until Flint finally stands. He tosses the boot in his hand onto the cot and braces his hands on either side of Silver's knees, letting his hair fall forward in a curtain. Silver immediately sticks his nose into the strands. 

He sniffs. Says nothing. Sniffs again, this time for longer. 

"Well?" Flint asks, after decidedly too much time has elapsed. He's been staring expectantly at Silver's crotch for a good three minutes and finds himself dangerously close to being distracted by it. "What's the verdict?"  

Without waiting for an answer, Flint draws back and catches the tail-end of a soft, half-way dazed expression on Silver's face as he goes. It is immediately rearranged into a disgruntled frown. "Revolting," Silver declares. He wrinkles his nose and swats the rest of Flint's hair away. "Absolutely revolting. You’re in desperate need of a wash, Captain."

Flint narrows his eyes. "You're lying." 

"Am not." 

"And now you are lying about lying," Flint points out. "This cabin is just a den of lies. I took a bath yesterday." 

Disarmed all of a sudden, Silver gapes in open confusion. "Yesterday? When? No, never mind that, the more important question is  _where_? I don't imagine we've a tub handy onboard." 

"We don't," Flint confirms, crouching down by the cot. The bed swings back with the movement and Silver immediately braces his hands on top of Flint's to steady it. The cot stills. Silver doesn't draw his hands back. Flint clears his throat and says, "I bathed when we went ashore to haggle over the price of the refitting." 

Now towering above Flint like an unconvinced judge, Silver raises a single suspicious brow. This close Flint can see the sheen of sweat prickling at the base of Silver's throat.  He finds he kind of wants to bury his face there, wrap his teeth around Silver's collarbone. As if aware, Silver drags his nails over the tops of Flint's hands. Not one to ever cave first, Flint contents himself with running a thumb along the length of Silver's thigh, curling his fingers sharply into the cord of muscle above Silver's knee thereafter.

The tables have turned. Silver huffs, once, like he's fighting something off. His rigid expression begins to slip into heat. "Is that why you took so long at the tavern?"  

"That and because Billy is a shitty negotiator," Flint says.  He moves to slip his hand beneath Silver's knee, and earns a delightful shudder out of him when his fingers dig into the soft flesh underneath. Silver exhales sharply through his nose and Flint continues, undisturbed, "Truly, just awful. Too soft, too nice, too _honest_. The smith was about to double the price before I stepped in." 

"Of course he was," Silver says smartly. A moment later he adds, in an after-thought, "Honesty never goes unpunished, does it?" 

It's a strange non-sequitr. "No," Flint says, uncertainly. "I suppose not." 

They stare at one another. Silver's expression shifts again, into a strange sort of frown. It would serve to make him look sad if not for the a sardonic twist to his mouth, as if he knows better than to waste time with the sentiment. Flint suddenly feels himself compelled to speak, to say something to make the expression go away, but a moment later Silver smiles again, sharp as a knife, and the window snaps shut. 

"So!" he says brightly, clapping down over Flint's hands once. "You threatened the poor man into a discount and then thought it the perfect time to take a bath, is that right?"

"Yes," Flint says, still trying to right himself in the conversation. "More or less, yes. I sent Billy off for provisions and rented a room in the tavern for a few hours." 

"Incredible," Silver says, shaking his head in disbelief. He absently runs his thumb along Flint's forearm. "And here I was, waiting for you to come back like a dutiful idiot while you were off pruning in some bath. How inconsiderate."

"Inconsiderate?" Flint catches Silver's wondering hand in his own. "Do you mean to tell me that as the Captain of this vessel I am obliged to ask for your permission before I practice basic hygiene?" 

"No, I suppose not," Silver allows quickly, slipping his hand free with a grin. "Though I must admit a quick heads up would have done wonders. Perhaps just a; 'Hello, Silver, nice to see you, I'm off for a bath. When I return I will be as fresh and perfect as a newborn baby, my hair smelling like fucking _daisies,_ after which I will proceed to compare you to a stinky dog for a few hours.' That alone would have sufficed, Captain." 

Flint heaves a put-upon sigh. "Christ, all this talk. Is it really so hard to just take a bath instead? Soap, water, a tub, it isn't all that complicated." 

"I know it's not complicated, it's just a ridiculous fucking affair." Silver lifts his shoulders up in a helpless sort of motion and says, "What do you even _do_? Aside from sitting there, for hours, stewing in your own filth. It makes no earthly sense, how does it even get you clean? Why not just jump in the sea? The sea is clean." 

"Stewing in my own filth," Flint repeats flatly. He digs his fingers into Silver's thigh again in warning; Silver instantly pushes back into the touch with an almost inaudible moan. "Exactly how filthy do you think I am?" 

A final dark smile stretches itself across Silver's mouth. Flint realizes too late that a trap has been sprung.

"Are you certain you want me to answer that question? Take a moment to rethink, Captain; are you absolutely certain you'd like me to answer after you spent close to an hour last night with your _tongue_ in my goddamned ars—"

Surging forward, Flint is kissing Silver before he can get the rest of it out. Already halfway through a laugh when their lips meet, Silver groans into Flint's mouth in victory and hooks a sly foot behind Flint's knee, the intention being to pull him down into the cot. Flint allows it, lets himself be drawn, and the bed swings backwards again, knocking sharply into the wall as he tumbles into Silver's chest. 

"We're—going to—break this—fucking thing—very soon," Flint warns between kisses. He breaks off for breath and latches his teeth onto Silver's collarbone, instead, drawing a muffled whine out of him when he begins to suck a bruise into it.

"Who cares?" Silver manages, voice hoarse already. His hands have fisted into Flint’s hair and he spreads his legs wide eagerly when Flint drives a knee between them, proceeds to hook an ankle around the back of Flint’s thigh a moment later for more leverage. "Who—fucking— _cares_ — _fuck—_ "

They are both breathing hard by the time Silver digs both of his thumbs into either side of Flint's hips, trying to yank his trousers down. There isn't enough space between them to get it done, and they are both rather unwilling to stop rocking into each other for long enough to try.

Unsurprisingly, Silver is nightmarishly talkative in bed. Flint is half-certain it is deliberate. A not so subtle plan to spur Flint on to come up with new ways to shut him up. Ever the contrary bastard, even with Flint's tongue in his mouth. 

"I for ohhhne—” Silver starts, moaning as Flint clamps his teeth around Silver’s nipple and pulls, “ _Fuuuc-k—_ I for one, _Captain_ , am just personally glad that all thissss—oh,  _Christ_ —that this ridiculous issue is finally settled—I can't believe—oh—I _bested_ you—"

The smug satisfaction Silver's tone is what brings Flint rushing back into the moment. He sits up sharply, and in doing so accidentally drags his knee hard against Silver's unsuspecting crotch. The sound that comes out of Silver then is positively _animal_ , long and throaty and so fucking _loud_ , that Flint rushes forward again, clapping a hand over Silver's mouth. 

The ship is empty, but not that empty.

"It's not fucking settled," Flint says, and Silver's eyes are so full of heat under Flint's palm that he can't even pretend to look offended any longer when Flint follows it up with, "I'm right; you still stink." 

Holding his gaze with hooded eyes, Silver licks a long and deliberate stripe into Flint's hand, before clamping teeth down hard around the tendon at the base of his thumb. It sharps like a spark—skittering wildly around Flint's entire body before rushing into his cock—and Flint's vision threatens to white out for a few lethal seconds. He can hear Silver darkly chuckling into his hand the entire time, and so when he has sufficiently composed himself Flint retaliates by sucking Silver's earlobe into his mouth with a growl, rocking his hips forward harshly as he goes. 

It works. Silver's back arches right off the cot like a fucking bow. "Christ—all _right—_ " he gasps, turning his head out from under Flint's hand and fixing him with a wild stare, "All right, all right—I would like for you to fuck me sometime this century, Captain and I— _fuck—_ I will not last for another _ten seconds_ if you keep—" 

A plan materialises. With a grin, Flint rocks forward again, trying to hold the reigns of his own arousal for long enough to follow through. He leans into Silver's ear, still damp where his mouth clamped around it, and whispers, low, "I've an idea." 

It goes unheard. One more thrust and Silver is practically deaf to the world, senselessly writhing beneath Flint with all protests forgotten. Silver now seems more than eager to continue just like this, all desperate heat and friction and rutting aimlessly against one another with no endgame in sight. Miraculously, he is past speech, too, edging closer on shortening breaths, his mouth dropping only into strangled moan as Flint surges forward and clasps teeth over the dizzying stretch of muscle in his neck.

The ensuing silence affords a sharp moment of clarity. Silver's pulse hammers against Flint's tongue so hard and real and _alive_  that Flint thinks he might just lose his grip entirely. Plan all but forgotten, he is hanging on a knife's edge when Silver throws him off his neck and curves inward. With a frustrated grunt, Silver braces his hand on Flint's shoulder and tries to match the sharp thrusts of Flint's hips. Unable to find enough purchase this way, a moment later Silver's hand skitters up Flint's back and Flint has to force himself not to _whimper_  when Silver's warm palm curls strong and possessive around the back of his neck. Silver's fingers dig sharply into the skin there as he brings their foreheads together, slick with sweat the both of them.

It's ridiculous, Flint thinks distantly. They've still got layers of cloth between them and as it is, they are barely even touching one another. Flint can't remember the last time he got off on this level of stimulation and so it's ridiculous,  _ludicrous_  that this feels like too much. The slip of Silver's forehead against his; the heady rush of pain when Silver's nails dig into his neck; the way Silver's other hand drops from desperately clawing into Flint's shoulder and down to press urgently into the cleft of his ass, fisting tightly into the cloth of Flint's trousers to keep him in his grip.

Flint knows with a sudden certainty that he's going to come from this alone. With the way Silver's breaths are coming harsher—turning into heavy groans every other moment—he knows Silver will, too.

It's enough, Flint thinks stupidly, this is fucking _enough_.

Thoughts swirling shapeless and desperate and yearning, Flint has a singular view from this angle when Silver's mouth drops into a moan, when half way through it he begins to say; 

"James, _I'm **—**_ "

Sense returns like a douse of cold water, and along with it The Plan. Flint draws back in one fluid motion and stands up. 

There's a moment of shivering silence. Then, voice breaking with indignation, Silver practically yells, "Where the _fuck_ are you **—** "

"Get up," Flint says.

He quickly turns away from the sight of Silver stretched out on the cot to dig the heel of his hand into the front of his trousers. This is not going to be exactly pleasant or comfortable for either of them, but all good things and what not. 

"Get _up_?" Silver repeats. His voice hitches as if Flint has just told him to sprout a second head. "I _am_  up, I'm half _dead,_ are you fucking seriou—get back here!" 

The cot is still swinging with the force of Flint's dismount and Silver uses the momentum to grasp uselessly at Flint's leg. "Captain— _Flint_ , I swear to _God—_ _"_

"Get  _up,"_ Flint repeats more urgently. His feet are still bare. He starts to cast around for his other boot and finds it, wedged between the shelf in the corner and the wall. He realises he cannot recall how it got there. 

"Why?" Silver asks, sounding strangled. He miserably watches Flint run around the room. Grunts, a moment later when Flint unceremoniously tosses his clothes at his face. Again, he asks, " _Why—_ "

"We're going ashore." 

"What? _Now_?" 

Stilling the bed by grasping the chains, Flint hops on one foot while pulling his boots on. "Yes, now. We're going ashore, to find a fucking room, with a fucking proper bed, and a fucking _tub._ _"_

In an instant, Silver's anguished expression begins to unwind into a smile. "You're going to fuck me in the bath." 

It isn't a question. Both boots securely on at last, Flint finally locks eyes with him. Still on his back in the cot, Silver looks a wild thing, closer to being undone than he did when he had Flint on top of him. There’s an impossibly red flush to his neck, his chest is rising and falling unevenly, and the bulge straining his trousers is, frankly, alarming, so for the purposes of speed and health, Flint clears his throat and admits, flatly, "Yes. Yes, that's the plan." 

Silver stares at him for a long moment. Then, he says, voice surprisingly steady, "Say it. I want to hear you say it."

Fair enough, Flint thinks. He clears his throat again and begins to move. "I am—" he says, reaching for his jacket draped behind the chair without breaking eye contact, "—going to fuck you—" he pulls the jacket on and rolls his shoulders, "—in the bath—" he runs both hands through his hair and ties it up, "—forfucking  _hours,_ " he drops a palm to Silver's bare ankle. And squeezes. "Like you deserve." 

Eyes gone glassy, Silver's mouth drops open into a throaty exhale, as if the air has been torn from him against his will. “That's—" he says, and visibly swallows, "That's a good plan, Captain." 

A beat, and Silver is scrambling off the bed so quickly that one of the hooks screwed into the ceiling finally gives in. With a lethal shriek, half the cot comes crashing down to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. The rest of it swings sadly by itself, quietly screeching like a wounded animal. 

They stare at it, together. Teetering with his clothes still in his hands, Silver looks torn; like he can't decide if he should bolt from the room or stay where he is and somehow try to salvage the situation. 

"Well," he says, after a moment. He glances at Flint side-along and grins, slow. "It's a good thing we're off to find a tub, isn’t it? Would have been downright unsafe to have fucked in _that_." 

Silver gestures to the bed at the same time the second hook gives out. In the ensuing crash, Flint can't help himself anymore and bursts out laughing. He pulls a startled Silver into matching hysterics as he goes.  

* * *

Hours later, they break the tub, too.

Breathless and naked and flat on his back on the floor of the room they rented for the night, Flint manages to say, "I think it's safe to say that you like baths now, Silver."

Summoned, Silver appears above him in a flash, sopping wet and grinning. "It wasn’t the bath that I liked, exactly," he says. The cracked tub tips over sadly to its side behind them as if on cue. "I was partial, however, to the wet naked Captain in it with me." 

For the millionth time, Flint tries not to smile and it no longer surprises him when he mostly fails. "Are you telling me that every time I think you should bathe I need only get into the tub with you?"

With a contemplative grunt, Silver lowers his chin to rest on Flint's sternum. Flint wants to bite the thoughtful pout off his lower lip at best, and at worst, wants to say something very stupid to fill the silence. Instead of doing either, he pushes Silver's wet hair off of his forehead and cards his fingers through the curls.  

"Yes," Silver says, finally, keening into Flint's hand. "Yes, that would do the trick. Though I am not sure Nassau has enough tubs if we plan on breaking one every time."

"I suppose there's always the rest of the Bahamas," Flint says, tucking a strand of Silver's hair behind his ear. "A tub in every port, as they say. We could break them all."

Silver's gaze is searching before he smiles, a small and honest thing. "Very true, Captain. We could. You may turn me into a believer yet." 

 _Progress_ , Flint thinks, and kisses him. 

**Author's Note:**

> I just want them to roll around and be happy forever, is that so much to ask?


End file.
